


late nights and candles

by pxincessofcolor



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Original Fiction, Poetry, poetic prose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:27:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6874018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pxincessofcolor/pseuds/pxincessofcolor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of poetry I've written. There isn't really a theme entirely but just pieces that I've liked and wanted to share.</p>
            </blockquote>





	late nights and candles

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a collection of poetry and poetic prose that I've been working, to kind of get away from fan fiction as well as to see how I am/changed as a writer. Some of these pieces are months old, some are just from a few weeks ago. It's mostly things that I've liked--or at the very least wanted to get out of my system. I'm trying to make myself write more. I tried to get out as many errors as I could but I'm sure that I missed some, as I usually do. So, I appreciate for sticking with me. 
> 
> And the reason I made the rating as I high as I did is just because some of the theme in the poems as well as what I may post in this work later because I do intend to add to it when I can. 
> 
> Thanks.

1.  
You make me feel just a little less of a terrible person.  
Thank you for that.   
\-- “How You Are” 

 

2.  
You should know by now that I still don’t know how to talk to people.  
That’ll still say things I don’t mean.  
Or what I say will come out of my mouth a lot more awful and cut a lot deeper than I intended.  
But I still care and love.  
And adore.  
I’m still human.  
I hope you get that. 

\-- “Speech”

 

3.

There are some times  
When the words just won’t come to me,  
And I have to open up my hands to you  
And just hope with everything you understand.  
My mind feels like a forest.  
I lose things,  
I find things,  
And I see things that weren’t there before.  
All of them pieces of myself.   
\-- “Forest” 

 

4.

“Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”  
The question will make you falter or sigh at first.  
Not because you’re not used to it but because it’s always asked when you’re least ready.  
To catch you off guard.  
They want to see a flicker of something in your face.  
They want to see you shake.  
To see if they can smell him—whoever “him” is to them—on you.  
See where he touched you.

But there is no “him”.  
And smile.  
Because you know, deep down.  
Boys your age, the boys they like, don’t like girls whose hurt,  
And anger,  
And heartache,  
And rage,  
They can see.  
You remind them of hurricanes and epic storms.  
Beautiful from far away, but deathly frightening.

You held on to all of the past people you were.  
You buried them but kept their feelings locked so tightly to you,  
That it’s almost visible on your skin.  
You have scars.  
And scars on those scars.

And most of the boys you met don’t like that.  
And the few that did only sought to fix you  
And remold you into their ideal.  
And refused to pull another person in your life  
Who would just make you hate yourself all over again.   
\-- “Why Don’t You Have A Boyfriend”

 

5.  
When it’s over—really, really over,  
You tell yourself you don’t need him.  
You act normal, you change the bed sheets  
From week to week.  
And you lie and tell yourself that you still don’t smell him on them.  
You don’t allow yourself think about all of the times you made love,  
Or the times you simply fucked as the radio played in the background  
When it was too hot to really wear anything to bed.

You drink your coffee without sugar or cream,  
And you started smoking again because quitting was his idea, not yours.  
It’s your way of spiting him and spitting in his face on a subconscious level.  
You take out every ounce of him from your life and anything that you reminds you of him.  
You hide all of the pictures and throw out his cologne.  
(Some of it spills on your fingers when you toss the bottle and you despise yourself for how you let your fingers linger too close to your nose).  
You were happy. Are happy. So long as you don’t think about him.

You don’t say his name and only use pronouns.  
You don’t acknowledge his existence.  
And it was all fine.  
So perfectly fine.

And then you saw him again,  
And smiled at you, in the same way you first met him.  
His lips pulled back and his teeth showed.  
He touched your hand, briefly, fingers grazing over your skin.  
You wanted to hate him, but you smiled back.  
And you started talking.  
Then reminiscing.  
And laughing.  
And you fell back into yourselves all over again.  
He touched the back of your neck, and said he missed you.  
And you both stared at each other.  
It was after you were both done,  
And his fingers lazily touched your scalp  
That you knew and your heart broke.  
First:you had found the love of your life.  
Second:you wouldn’t be able to be together ever again.  
\-- “When It’s over--really, really over”

 

6.  
He thinks you’re pretty.  
But you think all men, deep down, are shit.  
And you tell him, right as he’s spinning you  
Under his arm.  
And instead of frowning and turning away and  
Leaving you, like you were sure he would.  
He smiled and spun you toward him and  
Whispered probably,  
Like you were secretly, deep down hoping he would.  
\-- “Honesty”

7.  
I am black and female  
In world that despises both of those things.  
Do not question my ability to survive.  
\-- “black and female” 

 

8.

I’m going to end up destroying myself to prove that I love you.  
Aren’t I?  
\-- “Love”


End file.
